


Pleasure in Sweet Waters

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Domestic Fluff, Love, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 12:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20426312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: “I was thinking, my dear, would you allow me to indulge you?”Crowley arches an eyebrow. “‘Indulge’?” he echoes, infusing the word with rather more suggestive meaning than Aziraphale intended.“Stop that,” he chastises with a chuckle, tapping Crowley’s thigh with his foot. “That’s not what I meant.”“Makes a change,” Crowley teases with a grin, which earns him another gently reproachful prod to the thigh. He gives Aziraphale’s ankle another fond squeeze. “What do you have in mind?”“It’s rather… silly,” Aziraphale admits, “but I’ve always wanted to bathe you.”





	Pleasure in Sweet Waters

There’s something wonderfully peaceful about sitting in a cosy living room while a winter storm lashes against the window.

Aziraphale is sitting back against the arm of the couch, a book in his hands, his legs drawn up on the couch, one folded, the other extended to let his foot rest in Crowley’s lap. The demon is watching some nature documentary on the television and idly massaging Aziraphale’s foot through his sock, easing tensions Aziraphale had scarcely even noticed were there.

“You’re very good at that,” he murmurs when he loses his place on the page for the sixth time.

Crowley’s lips twitch. “You just like having someone’s hands all over you, angel.”

Aziraphale snorts fondly. While it _is_ a little disparaging, it’s not entirely untrue. “Hardly,” he says in half-hearted self-defence and prods Crowley’s hip with his other foot.

The demon looks at him in amusement. “Was that meant to be a reproach or a demand for attention?” he asks and before Aziraphale can form an answer, catches that ankle and hauls Aziraphale’s other foot into his lap too.

“You’re spoiling me,” Aziraphale says happily, wiggling his toes as Crowley presses and kneads with strong, sure fingers.

“Nah.” Crowley smiles as he returns his attention to his television show.

Aziraphale watches him, his lovely profile and the sharp angles of his face. His hair is drawn back in a braid, coiling over the back of a couch like a flame-coloured serpent. He is so very, very remarkable. It never ceases to amaze Aziraphale how fortunate he is.

“You keep staring at me like that and I’m going to charge a pay-per-view fee,” Crowley says, creases curving around his eyes when his smile widens.

“I’m not staring,” Aziraphale demurs, closing his book. “I’m admiring.”

“Fah!” Crowley does try to sound indifferent, but his cheeks pink. “You’re soft.”

“And you’re wonderful.”

“Angel!” he whines. “Stop that. It’s cheating.”

Aziraphale smiles, quietly pleased with himself, and settled back more comfortably against the arm of the couch, closing his eyes as Crowley continues to massage at his feet. It’s delightful to be treated with such tender attentiveness even in such quiet, lazy moments.

What, he wonders, could he offer Crowley that is of equal comfort and measure?

As he slides a little further down the couch, he lets his mind wander.

All too soon, the television programme is finished and Crowley gives a contented little sigh and pats Aziraphale’s ankles. “I think you’re done.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale opens his eyes to find Crowley gazing at him, an equally soft, fond expression on his face. He cannot help ducking his head with a small smile, even now. “I was thinking, my dear, would you allow me to indulge you?”

Crowley arches an eyebrow. “‘Indulge’?” he echoes, infusing the word with rather more suggestive meaning than Aziraphale intended.

“Stop that,” he chastises with a chuckle, tapping Crowley’s thigh with his foot. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Makes a change,” Crowley teases with a grin, which earns him another gently reproachful prod to the thigh. He gives Aziraphale’s ankle another fond squeeze. “What do you have in mind?”

“It’s rather… silly,” Aziraphale admits, “but I’ve always wanted to bathe you.”

“Bathe…” Crowley’s brows pull down. “As in rubber-duck and bubbles and loofah?”

Aziraphale laughs. “Don’t you remember Rome? Or the hammams?” He sighs wistfully. “To be properly bathed, attended to. I used to enjoy them so.”

“And you want to do that to me?” Crowley doesn’t sound convinced.

Aziraphale draws his feet from Crowley’s lap so he can sit up and move closer. “Not _to_ you, darling. _For_ you.” He gives Crowley’s knee a gentle squeeze. “Let me pamper you. You spoil me so often and this… I can do this for you.”

Crowley lifts his hand to brush his fingertips down Aziraphale’s cheek. “If this is one of those baths where they throw buckets of ice-water at you, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Oh, _really_,” Aziraphale huffs, though he recognises the mischievous glint in Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley leans closer and kisses the end of his nose. “Go on, then, angel.” His expression is ridiculously and wonderfully loving. “If you want to give me a good scrubbing, who am I to stop you?”

Aziraphale beams at him. “Really?”

“Haven’t got any other plans tonight.” He winks. “Yet.”

It takes a great deal of will not to kiss him silly, but Aziraphale manages to restrain himself. “I’ll go and get the bathroom ready, shall I?” He gets up, smoothing down his creased waistcoat and trousers. “You really don’t mind?”

“Nah.” Crowley lounges back on the couch. “I’m curious now.”

“Oh _good_!” Aziraphale hurries off to the bathroom.

It’s a nice room, though hardly the marble indulgence of a hammam or the Roman baths. He considers the claw-footed bathtub that stands beneath the mottled window – which is allegedly large enough for two, though they have never tested that – then smiles, rubbing his hands together and calling down a little indulgent miracle or two.

When everything is ready, he calls Crowley through, unfathomably nervous as his lover saunters into the room and stops short.

“How the hell did you get it so warm?”

Aziraphale laughs. “I cheated,” he admits. He has also shed his clothing, hung neatly on a hanger on the back of the door. For the sake of authenticity, he has a towel wound around his waist and fidgets with it as Crowley approaches. “I wouldn’t want you to get chilly.”

“Soft,” Crowley says happily and claims a brief kiss. “So… what do I do?”

Aziraphale’s heart wells with affection. “Not a thing,” he says, reaching for Crowley’s shirt and undoing the buttons. It would be easy enough to banish the clothing, but sometimes one simply needs to take the quiet pleasure of tending one’s lover. He pauses to undo each cuff, then pushes the shirt from Crowley’s shoulders.

“I could help,” Crowley murmurs, watching him fold it neatly.

“And then, I wouldn’t be indulging you,” Aziraphale says with a smile, lifting the chain of Crowley’s necklace over his head, drawing his braid free from it. It joins the shirt on top of the laundry hamper and Aziraphale reaches for the demon’s belt.

“Or,” Crowley murmurs, watching him with heat in his eyes, “indulging yourself, I think.”

Aziraphale meets his eyes, lips twitching as he schools his expression to virtuous innocence and whips the belt free from his trousers. “I have no idea what you mean,” he says, dragging the strip of scale-patterned leather between his hands.

Crowley’s lips press into an unconvincing line. “Mm. Hm.”

Aziraphale primly rolls up the belt, then makes easy work of Crowley’s trousers, sinking onto his knees to peel them off. Of course, bad habits die hard, and he cannot help himself when Crowley’s lovely lean thighs are right in front of him. He kisses each one, only leaning back when Crowley playfully tugs his hair.

“Didn’t know I was in that kind of bathhouse.”

Oh. Yes. Of course.

“Sorry, dearest,” he says, looking up with a helpless smile. “You are rather… tempting.”

Crowley snorts, but he’s grinning. “You’re such an idiot.” Still, he lifts one foot, then the other, to step out of his trousers, leaving them in Aziraphale’s hands. “What now?”

Aziraphale quickly folds the trousers, adding them to the laundry hamper. “Into the bath.”

There’s a momentary pause, then Crowley hesitantly says, “You do know there’s no water in the tub, don’t you?”

Aziraphale turns, smiling. “Of course.” He makes a shooing gesture towards it. “In and stay standing.”

The demon clambers into the bath and turns, hands on his hips, an expectant look on his face. “Is this when you turn the shower on and freeze me to death?”

Instead of replying, Aziraphale settles for a stern look which only makes Crowley grin more widely. “One would think you didn’t trust me.”

“When it comes to you catching me off-guard? Never.”

Aziraphale stoops, picking up his pitcher. It’s a beautiful, hefty piece, part of a bedroom bathing set he has had since… oh, perhaps 1876. Delicate flowers are picked out in red and gold on the black of the surface. When he bought it, he hadn’t considered why those colours caught his eye. Now, he felt a bit silly for not noticing soon.

“Will you give me your hand?”

Crowley offers one at once and Aziraphale smiles, wrapping his fingers around it, drawing his arm a little way from Crowley’s body. He tips the jug, perfectly warm water sluicing down over Crowley’s shoulder, chest and arm. He isn’t surprised when Crowley’s fingers tighten on his.

“I was right about you chucking water on me,” Crowley complains, but there’s warmth in his voice.

“One must get clean,” he says with a little smile, “before one has a soak. It’s only hygienic.”

“Hygienic,” Crowley echoes with a laugh. “Stand by what I said – you just want to chuck water at me.”

Aziraphale refills the pitcher with a whisper of will and pours it over Crowley’s left side again, soaking any spots he may have missed. “Well,” he admits, looking up with wide-eyed innocence, “it is rather an added bonus.”

“Knew it,” Crowley says with a touch of smugness as Aziraphale set the pitcher down and tugs the scrubbing cloth from the towel at his waist. It’s not much, a coarse pocket of cloth that he slips his hand inside, but he’s always kept a collection from his visits to the Turkish bathhouses. This one, he has well-frothed with olive oil soap. “No sponge?”

“This is better,” Aziraphale says with a smile, lifting Crowley’s hand and kissing his knuckles, then turning his palm up and softly kissing that too. Then everso gently, he starts working the cloth on the back of Crowley’s hand, slow circles moving from hand to wrist to forearm, his other hand tenderly cradling Crowley’s wrist to hold it steady.

Crowley’s fingers twitch as the cloth sweeps over the sensitive skin of his inner arm, curling to brush Aziraphale’s elbow, and Aziraphale lifts his eyes to him, holding his gaze. He knows his way around Crowley’s form well enough that he can tend him without ever turning away from him and he does so love the way Crowley bites his lip to messes when he is enjoying something but doesn’t want to say he is.

When he moves upwards, to upper arms that have been so woefully neglected, Crowley shudders under his palms, his ribs rising and falling, and Aziraphale only smiles and slips his fingers down to squeeze Crowley’s trembling ones.

“Well?”

Crowley nods, chewing hard on his lower lip.

Aziraphale dips to fetch the pitcher, gently washing a fresh wave down Crowley’s arm, then sets it down again and works onwards and upwards, steady, stronger strokes sweeping at last over his shoulder. He has lean so close, rising on his toes to scrub down over Crowley’s back and ribs. Crowley all but arches into him, back bow-curved, as if sparking away from Aziraphale’s hand.

“Too much?” Aziraphale asks, his voice barely a whisper over the quiet drip of water in the plumbing and Crowley’s shortened breaths.

“Never,” Crowley sighs, rolling his head to the side, closing his eyes, the utter trust and submission of the gesture making Aziraphale’s legs tremble beneath him.

Another sluice of the pitcher and he brushes the cloth across the delicate patina of bruises that forever ring Crowley’s neck. As gentle as his touch is, he cannot help but notice the delightful tremors rippling through Crowley’s body. If he lingers there, it’s only because there is some poetry in the way Crowley’s throat bobs against his cloaked fingers and his eyelids flutter.

“Lovely,” he says softly, bringing the cloth downward in ever decreasing circles, over breath, sternum and belly.

One golden eye cracks open. “Need to get you a thesaurus,” Crowley murmurs, one side of his mouth twitching.

Aziraphale makes a face up at him. “I have several in fact.”

“Mm.” Crowley’s whole body seems to ripple upwards as Aziraphale drags the cloth beneath his arm, teasing across the rapid rise-fall of his ribs. “Used them?”

Aziraphale adds a little more water and repeats the stroke a little higher. “Of course.” Beneath the armpit. “Charming.” Around to the shoulderblade and sweeping downwards. “Handsome.” The valley of the spine. “Dazzling.” He leans up closer, on his toes, lips a breath away from Crowley’s as his fingers dip to that low curve of his spine. “_Divine_.”

Crowley damned near ricochets, his gasp an explosive breath against Aziraphale’s lips. “Dirty great cheat,” he rasps out, his fingers clutching at Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale looks up at him with wide wounded eyes. “I was only listing synonyms, my darling.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows, lips a twitching line. “Oh, you _know_ what you did,” he growls.

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose, knowing full well how much Crowley adores the expression. “Don’t I always, dearest?” He raises himself an inch further to drop a light kiss on Crowley’s lips, then returns to the pitcher to rinse Crowley down. “Other side, my dear?”

Crowley reaches up, dragging his braid over to his left shoulder, then holds out his hand. “Well, you can’t just throw water on half of me now, can you?”

“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying it,” Aziraphale laughs, tipping fresh cascades of water over Crowley’s shoulder and chest. It swirls down, eddying around his bare feet.

“Torture,” Crowley sighs, fingers flexing against Aziraphale’s forearm as he begins the pattern again, firm, swirling strokes from hand to wrist to forearm. His thumb grazes tenderly across the smooth skin of Crowley’s inner elbow and he bites down on a smile at the sharp, indrawn breath.

It’s wonderful how _good_ it feels, Aziraphale thinks, to see and feel and hear Crowley utterly at his ease, especially when Crowley is relaxing more and more with every moment, his deepening breaths almost sighs, punctuated every so often with a staccato gasp or shudder.

His head rolls back as Aziraphale scrubs slow patterns up the length of his throat, dragging his braid to fall, swinging, between his shoulders, heavy and damp already. It’s far too tempting to resist that beautiful column of exposed skin and Aziraphale adds another lovely purpling mark that makes Crowley’s hiss whisper around them, soft as a whisper of a stream in a forest.

“That’s not how you always bathe, is it, angel?” Crowley says thickly, when Aziraphale stoops to fetch the pitcher again.

“Only with you, dearest.” Aziraphale lifts Crowley’s chin a little higher with his cloth-covered hand, then tips the cascade of warm water over his throat and chest, following the path of the torrent with his hand, lower and lower, until he is tracking a figure of eight between Crowley’s narrow hips. He cannot help but pause there, drinking in the blissful expression on Crowley’s face, the demon’s head lolling to one side. “Do you think you could lift one foot to the edge of the tub, darling?”

Crowley blinks, as if roused from a dream. “Hm?”

Aziraphale taps the edge of the tub with his fingertips. “Can you put your foot here?” He offers his hand to steady Crowley, who wobbles precariously on one foot.

“What else?” There’s mischief in those lazy golden eyes. “Rub my tummy and pat my head at the same time, while singing the National Anthem?”

Aziraphale chuckles. “As entertaining as that may be, no,” he says, picking up the pitcher again. It takes care not to send water sloshing all over the floor, but he manages and begins work at Crowley’s hip, scrubbing his way along the lean – and delightfully love-bitten – thigh.

Crowley grabs at his shoulder, his breath a sharp hiss when Aziraphale’s fingers skirt the back of his knee and curve down onto his calf. Perhaps it’s a little naughty, but he _does_ have to make sure every inch is clean, so he does it again, meeting Crowley’s eyes.

“Oh you…” Crowley breathes hard. “You _bugger_.”

“Just being thorough, darling,” Aziraphale says, all wide-eyed innocence, as he palm-presses and rubs his way gently down Crowley’s quivering calf.

“My arse,” Crowley grumbles, then gives a curiously adorable little yip of surprise when Aziraphale steps up against the tub and slides his covered hand over calf, thigh and hip to reach the aforementioned part of his anatomy and _squeezing_. “Angel!”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinks up at him. “That wasn’t a request?” He moves his hand in slow, kneading circles. “Well… while I’m here…”

Crowley’s fingers tighten on his shoulder, his backside tensed and firm under Aziraphale’s touches. “You’re a menace.”

Aziraphale beams up at him, then works his hand steadily back downward and, oh, what a shame, he skims the back of Crowley’s knee again.

“I swear…” Crowley growls as he clutches at Aziraphale to steady his wobbling. “You do this on purpose.”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale laughs, gently lifting his foot from the side of the tub, kneading, massaging and working his way around every part of it, admiring every subtle twitch and flicker on Crowley’s face and every glimpse of Crowley’s bared teeth. He drops a light kiss on Crowley’s knee once he is done, then releases him. “Other side?”

Crowley immediately changes legs, though he doesn’t release Aziraphale’s shoulder at once. “If I slip and fall and discorporate myself, I’m blaming you.”

Aziraphale leans close enough to rise on his toes and kiss him. “If you fall,” he promises, “I’ll always be there to catch you.”

It’s dazzling how beautiful Crowley looks when he blushes like that.

“Shut up,” he grumbles happily, moving his other hand to Aziraphale’s other shoulder.

In a show of mercy, Aziraphale teases less on the second leg. That’s not to say he doesn’t take his time and enjoy every little quiver and sigh, but there is always another day to thoroughly ravage the demon’s senses.

“There,” he says, straightening up and patting Crowley’s upraised knee. “All scrubbed.”

“Are you sure? I think you could’ve gone on a bit longer,” Crowley teases, tilting his head back as Aziraphale fills and refills the pitcher to pour steaming cascades of water, rinsing Crowley from shoulder to toe, leaving him pink and glistening in the steam-hazed light.

“I could, but I don’t want to spoil you too much,” Aziraphale says with a smile and taps Crowley’s shoulder. “Sit down, love.”

“Too much, he says,” Crowley shakes his head, chuckling, as he turns and sits, propping his feet on the bottom of the tub and resting his arms on his upraised knees. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Aziraphale sits on the edge of the tub, reaching down to draw up Crowley’s braid. “Is that a challenge?” he asks, loosening the band and unravelling the thick, red waves.

Crowley slants a wary glance back at him. “If I say yes, I think I’d be in trouble.”

“From me?”

“Yes, from you!” Crowley unfolds an arm to swat his knee. “I _know_ what you’re like, angel. Your version of ‘too much’ has crossed the line and is accelerating so fast towards the horizon that it’s about to cause a sonic boom.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together to stifle a laugh as he spread Crowley’s hair across his shoulders. “I’m not quite _that_ bad.”

“Agree to disagree,” Crowley says with a sniff.

Aziraphale leans forward and drops a kiss on his brow. “You _like_ it.” He smiles as the demon makes a grumbling sound, then gently tilts Crowley’s head back. “Close your eyes, my dear.”

It takes two pitchers to thoroughly soak Crowley’s hair, the water turning it from burnished copper to deep, bloody red, wrapping around him like waterweed in a current. He shivers pleasantly, arching his neck back as Aziraphale sinks his fingers deep into those lovely tresses.

Gently, he rubs shampoo through Crowley’s heavy spill of hair, smiling as the demon sinks sideways to lean against the edge of the tub, making soft sounds of contentment. His eyes are closed again and the creases and furrows that so often tighten across his face are smoothing away.

“I should do this for you more often,” Aziraphale murmurs, fingers splaying and rubbing in slow, rhythmic circles on Crowley’s scalp. He drags one thumb then the other up against Crowley’s nape, then back down, earning small, shuddering sighs with every deepening press of his fingers.

“Mm.” Crowley tilts his head to nuzzle Aziraphale’s thigh. “S’good.”

Aziraphale gazes down at him fondly, combing his fingers through Crowley’s hair again and again, parting and smoothing long, waving locks. “Good,” he says softly, then reaches down to fetch the pitcher again. “Head back, my love.”

With visible effort, Crowley lifts his head, rolling it back on his shoulders. He looks as if he’s on the verge of drifting to sleep, utterly relaxed. “Mm?”

“Good,” Aziraphale murmurs again, leaning forward to slip his arm around Crowley’s chest. “I have you, my dear. I won’t let you fall.”

Crowley makes a quietly happy sound, then shivers pleasantly as Aziraphale lets the pitcher flow, a never-ending torrent of warm water rippling down over him, rinsing through his hair. Massage, then rinse, massage then rinse. Aziraphale repeats it with infinite care, and with every moment, he feels Crowley listing more comfortably against him.

“’Ziraphale?” Crowley murmurs when Aziraphale finally sets the pitcher down for the last time.

“Yes, dearest?”

Crowley rubs his brow against Aziraphale’s bare arm. “Get in too? With me?”

“Now?” Aziraphale blinks, momentarily flustered. “But– this is for you.”

He can feel Crowley’s sleepy smile against his arm. “An’ I want you in to. Can fill us up. Let us have a soak.” His fingers tug at Aziraphale’s towel. “Get it off.”

It would have taken a much stronger character to resist so welcome an invitation. The towel – already sodden – hits the floor a moment later and Aziraphale climbs into the bath behind Crowley, drawing his lover back to rest against his chest.

“Shall I fill it?” he asks.

Crowley makes a bold attempt to snap water-pruned fingers, then shakes his hand as if it’s a faulty pen. “Mmf. Might have to. M’too soggy.”

Aziraphale hides a smile against Crowley’s brow and makes a smaller gesture. At once, the plug is in and sweet-scented warm water fills the tub up from beneath them, rippling around them, a rainbow of exotic oils shimmering on the surface. “There we go.”

“Mm.” Crowley gropes for Aziraphale’s arm, pulling it around him, and subsides back with a happy sigh.

It’s strange that so simple a thing can being such a pleasure. The touch of Crowley’s skin against his. The whisper of his hair swaying against Aziraphale’s thigh in the water. The soft in-out of their breathing, at first syncopated, then falling into a slow soft rhythm that presses them that little bit closer together.

A miracle or two keeps the water warm for as long as they need and Aziraphale drifts, one hand moving in light lazy circles on Crowley’s side.

“Angel,” Crowley eventually murmurs, tilting his head to nudge his brow against Aziraphale’s.

“Mm?”

“Think we should get to bed? M’gonna go to sleep in here.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s chest lightly. It’s a good point. If they stay much longer, they may well devolve to soup. “Bed. Yes.”

Ten minutes later, Crowley manages to grasp the side of the bath. It’s progress, but Aziraphale still moans in protest when Crowley manages to sit upright.

“Bed,” Crowley reminds him. He tries snapping his fingers again, then frowns at them. “Looks like we’re walking.”

Aziraphale makes a face. “How… retro of us.”

Crowley snickers sleepily. “Vintage.” With a bit of help from Aziraphale, who – quite frankly – does not care where he is sleeping as long as Crowley is there, he gets to his feet and swings one leg over the side of the tub, then the other.

It takes their combined effort to haul Aziraphale up too. There are several failed attempts, one of which has both of them back in the tub and serves the dual purpose of waking them both up a bit, but eventually, they are both standing on the bathmat, sopping wet, dripping and laughing.

“We didn’t coordinate that very well, did we?” Aziraphale says, as he stoops to pull the plug out of the tub but when he straightens, warm, wet arms wrap around his middle and Crowley nuzzles his shoulder.

“Maybe,” the demon murmurs, “next time I can do you?”

Aziraphale leans back into him happily. “Maybe,” he agrees, enjoying the slick warmth of Crowley’s chest against his back.

“Mm.” Crowley sweeps a towel around him, half-snaring him. “You in that kind of mood?”

Aziraphale laughs, swatting at his fingers. “None of that.” He twists in Crowley’s embrace, draping his arms around Crowley’s shoulders. “Let me…” Warmth spreads through his hand, a miracle whispering through Crowley’s hair a moment before Crowley could yelp in dismay.

“Angel! No!”

Aziraphale whips his hands back too late, a bubble of laughter escaping him. “Oh Lord…”

Crowley glowers at him, his hair a froth of copper-coloured cotton-candy.

“Oh _Lord_…” Aziraphale has to crush a hand to his mouth to stifle the helpless mirth. “What has happened to your hair!”

“You!” Crowley says with remarkable hauteur. “You did.” He reached up, sliding his hand down over his hair, returning it to its more familiar curly state. He gave the angel a stern look. “And we never speak of it again.”

“No.” Aziraphale nods, lips still twitching. “Never again. Of course not. No matter how adorable it looked.”

Crowley snorts, pulling him closer. “Shaddup, angel,” he says happily. “Bed?”

Aziraphale leans into him. “Bed,” he agrees, utterly content.

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. A PG chapter. And even then, barely that. Only PG for the fact they're stark nekkid. But I wanted to see if I could do it and lo, I did :D Not as sexy as I intended, but I like fluff from time to time :)


End file.
